Butterflies All Tied Up
by BritStargirl
Summary: Phanfiction about Phil Lester and Dan Howell. Phil's frustrated after a day at Vidcon, so stays at the hotel while the others go out. What he doesn't bet on is Dan coming back early. What Dan doesn't bet on is finding Phil on a bed in their hotel room in a position that he's only seen before in his dreams.
1. Chapter 1

_**I DID NOT WRITE THIS!**_

_**This is a fanfic posted by kawaii_tenshi27 on livejournal which was originally written about Tom and Dougie from McFly. I just thought when I was reading it how I could totally see the story working out as Dan and Phil, so I have just edited the story to put their names in, and make it all relevant to youtubing rather than being in a band.**_

_**In this Phil was originally written as Tom Fletcher, and Dan was Dougie Poynter. Some of their characteristics are actually pretty similar at times, so this worked better than I would usually expect for changing names and other little details!**_

_**Please don't think I'm trying to pass this off as my own; I'm just passing on the great storyline, and for anyone interested in McFly fanfiction, kawaii_tenshi27 is an awesome writer, so do please go and check them out! This story is called 'Butterflies all tied up' on their page which is called 'First Among Angels', and it's written in two parts which are divided just the same as I did here (keeping true to the original). Also Tom (the Phil character original) has a youtube channel too, so if you just type his name into the search bar he'll come up, and he's pretty damn cool. Plus Dougie (original Dan character) is in some of his videos (as well as the rest of the band) so there's plenty to enjoy there too!**_

* * *

By eleven o'clock, Phil has showered, changed into clean boxers and an old Pikachu tee-shirt, and settled in with his laptop on the bed he's claimed for himself. He still hasn't come down off the adrenaline high from the VidCon meet and greets, but he hadn't wanted to go out with the others to whatever bar or club they'd chosen – hadn't been sure he could handle being that close to Dan after the meetups without doing something he shouldn't. He's tense, wired, frustrated with himself for not just getting over his stupid infatuation. He's hoping he can burn through it all – at least for the moment – by working on the video idea he's had stuck in his head for the past week.

An hour later, he's gotten down about a minute of bad editing, and no inspiration for how to improve it. He kind of wants to punch something.

Phil presses hard against the edge of his macbook, feels the metal bite into his fingers, relishes the not-quite-pain. A moment later he releases, and abruptly puts the laptop down before he can pitch it across the room. He doesn't want to have to deal with gossip blogs tomorrow about how he trashed his room, and he doesn't want to deal with the other youtubers wanting to know if he's all right, which would probably be even worse than the fan's concern, though probably later in coming. Dan won't say anything to him, just give him worried looks when he gets back to the room at fuck-all in the morning, but he'll tell Chris and PJ in the morning, and they'll demand explanations. Somehow, he doesn't think "I was just frustrated, all right?" will cut it, and there's no way in hell he can tell Dan that part of the problem is the way Dan's shirt sticks to him in the American sun.

He really wishes he had the balls to break something. He settles for growling loudly and hurling a pillow at the far wall. It is less than satisfying.

He's starting to wish he'd gone out, but watching the others pull has never been his idea of a good time – hates that watching Dan with girls still gives him a sick, jealous feeling in the pit of his stomach even after all these years – and one-night stands aren't his thing. He likes to know who he's going to wake up to in the morning, likes to know they'll still be there after coffee, likes not having to scramble for clothes to avoid awkward goodbyes. He likes _relationships_. But right now, he's wondering if the dark, sweaty beat of a club and the promise of anonymity would really be all that bad. Getting drunk or getting off – or both – might help loosen the tension in his muscles, dull the electricity under his skin, distract him. At least it might make it easier tonight, when Dan's asleep in the bed next to his, loose and languid and smelling like some random girl's cheap perfume, and all Phil wants to do is curl up next to him and pretend he belongs there.

Phil frowns at himself and paces to the window, stares out at the city that's not home. He grits his teeth and stalks to the television, picking up the remote and flipping channels. He's not really sure what he's looking for – anything to distract him, really – and starts to pace in front of the screen while movies and programs and advertisements flick by, nothing catchy enough to hold his interest for more than a few seconds.

_Screw it,_ he thinks, and grabs his jeans off the chair he'd thrown them on, digging in the pockets for his phone. He punches in Dan's number, rationalizing that he's the most likely to answer his phone, even if PJ's more likely to know where they actually are – it's got nothing at all to do with the way something warm curls in Phil's stomach every time he hears Dan's voice, at even the thought of it. Phil really just needs to get out of here, _do_ something, some_one_, maybe, if he can just – and he really hates himself like this, but he's still buzzing with energy that has no where to go, and he feels itchy in his own skin, unfocused, tense, desperate, half turned on.

The music from the television is vaguely creepy, and Phil glances at the screen as he paces around the room, tapping the remote restlessly against his thigh, waiting for the phone to stop ringing and for Dan to pick up, breath already catching in his throat. A guy in dark clothing is climbing in a window, and there's another guy on the bed, looking fairly terrified. _Murder story,_ Phil thinks, but then. Then they're both on the bed and, "Lie down," says the first guy, and he's pushing the other guy's shirt off his shoulders, and.

There's a click next to Phil's ear, and a voice saying, "All right, mate? Hello? Phil?"

But Phil's staring at the screen even as he shivers, staring at the shadowed figures twisting together, their breathing heavy, fingers curling into hair, and it's not – this isn't what he'd usually – but right now –

Both remote and phone fall from Phil's fingers as he sits hard on the edge of his bed. The images on the screen flash once before vanishing as the set goes dark and the noise from the phone cuts off just as abruptly. He continues to stare at the blank screen, replaying the scene on repeat in his head, slowly getting longer as his mind continues from where the program cut off. He drums his fingertips against the bedspread, against his knees, feels hot and twitchy and the scrape of calluses on his bare skin makes his muscles jump and his breath hitch. He can still hear Dan's voice saying his name in his ear.

The phone buzzes against the carpet, but Phil ignores it, can't – _can't_ – actually talk to him, doesn't want to hear confusion or worry in that voice, just needs the sound and images in his own head. He drags short nails up one leg, right to the edge of his boxers, then back. The phone stills for a moment, buzzes again, stops. Buzz stop buzz stop. Phil can almost feel the vibrations through the soles of his feet, though he's not touching it, lets the phantom sensations run up his legs, hit his spine, and spread all the way out to his fingertips, shivers with it, closes his eyes and leans back on the bed.

Phil slides his fingers up one arm – barely-there contact that makes the short hairs stand on end – then down across his chest, the touch enough, even through his shirt, to make his breath catch. He lets his nails scrape against skin where his shirt rides up, then slides his hand up under the worn fabric, pressing his palm against his stomach, fingertips curling in just a little.

He runs his other hand up along his side, lets his nails catch against his throat, brushes the pad of his thumb over his lower lip. He lets the tip of his tongue dart out to sweep his lips, thumb, then slides his hand back down, flash of cool on wet over his chin before it dries. He dances his fingers over the waistband of his boxers, hip to hip and back, then, giving in, along the line of his cock.

His breath catches, fingers pressing hard into his stomach, but he keeps the touch on his cock feather-light, teasing, not enough not enough. Up, down – he can feel himself getting harder, breathing shallower. There's sweat on his forehead, in the hollow of his throat, making his shirt stick to his chest, slick under his palm as he slides it just a bit lower.

He doesn't usually do this, doesn't tease when it's just him, doesn't usually see the point, when all he wants is to get off, but right now. Right now he wants this. Wants more than this. Wants something else entirely, maybe, and he doesn't really know, just lets it build until it's almost too much.

_Want want want,_ Phil thinks, pushes the heel of his hand against his cock, hips lifting to meet it, a gasp escaping his throat, and _Need need need._ He forces both hands away long enough to haul himself fully onto the bed – head against the pillows, the duvet kicked roughly aside so he's lying on clean, cool sheets – then he's slipping his fingers under the elastic waist of his boxers, pushing them down as slowly as he can manage, and then they're gone, gone, and he's wrapping one hand around his cock, and _fuck_, that's good.

_Oh, god,_ he thinks, tightens his fingers around his cock, lets himself get a little lost in the sensation. He slides his other hand up under his shirt, nails against the skin of his chest as he starts to jerk off properly, hand dry, and he swears out loud at the rough drag. Hand to his mouth to lick his palm, to ease the friction just enough – thinks, _oh, god, I want _– the fingers of his other hand have dropped down, skimming his stomach, the crease of his thigh and. _Fuck fuck fuck,_ he thinks, licks his left palm instead, and Phil's not used to jerking off left-handed, but knows enough to know he needs to be careful if he's never. And he wants.

He presses his right index finger against his bottom lip for a moment, hips shifting with the slow movement of his left hand, then slides his finger past his teeth, tongue curling against the knuckle. He can feel his cheeks hollow when he sucks in a second finger, flicks his tongue between the two, and it feels _good_. It shouldn't, it's just his fingers, but. He can feel the vibrations of a moan against his hand, down his arm, and that's _him_ moaning.

Phil moves his hand a little faster on his cock, and it's awkward, still feels a little backwards, but good. Really good. Palm over the head, and he can feel the damp of pre-come already, uses it to make the glide of his hand easier.

He pulls his fingers free of his mouth, lets his arm fall, fingertips wet against his thigh, his balls, and. _Bloody hell,_ he thinks in the tiny section of his brain that hasn't been completely swamped by sensation, because that's his _arsehole_, and what the hell is he doing but. It feels _good_ and he _wants_ and.

The tip of his first finger slides in easy, and it doesn't hurt, but it feels so _odd_. He pushes a little harder, slides it in a little farther, and moves his left hand a little faster on his cock, squeezes a little at the base. The dual sensation makes him gasp, and his head tilts back against the pillows, throat bared and arched like there's someone there to offer it to. He twists his right hand, tries to move his finger, gasps again, slides his hand back, and shoves two fingers in, hard.

"_Fuck_," Phil hisses, voice loud in the room, but _fuck_ that hurt. He bites into his lower lip, but doesn't pull his fingers out. He forces himself to focus on his left hand – still jerking himself off, faster, but still not too fast, drawing it out – and tries to relax while his body adjusts to the – _holy Jesus_ – the _fingers_ in his _arse_, because it's rough and almost too dry and it _hurts_ but it's still a _good_ hurt. His fingertips drag lightly over the head of his cock and he takes several deep, half-gasped breaths, his muscles slowly losing some of their tension. Then his hips move to meet the hand on his cock and the fingers in his arse shift, twisting and curling as shivers run along his spine, and _oh god, oh god_. Sparks go off behind his eyelids, and the tiny voice in his brain goes _oh god, prostate_ and then sort of fades into the background, too busy sending mixed signals as to whether he should be thrusting up into the hand on his cock or down onto his fingers.

He can hear his breath loud in his own ears, a jagged off-beat of the heavy pounding of his heart. His whole body is shaking, he feels a million degrees, and wishes he could get rid of his shirt, but he doesn't have a hand to spare, can't even focus on anything besides the feel of his hands and the sensation of spiraling closer. He jerks himself faster, hand tight, twisting over the head of his cock, and pushes his fingers in harder every time he drives his hips down – harder, harder, it's not enough, not enough, but – his muscles shudder and clench as he fucks himself on his hand, heat building low in his stomach.

The wooden-metallic slam and the sound of someone-not-him gasping registers in delayed reaction. It's several heartbeats before the noise breaks through the fog in Phil's brain, and several more before it sinks in enough for his body to respond, going completely still, eyes dragging open, and.

_Oh god, oh god, oh god._ The words trail like a broken record through Phil's head, staticky and faint. Petrified.

Phil can't move, can't do anything but stare at Dan, breath frozen in his lungs. And Dan – Dan is staring right back, eyes wide and lips parted, barely two steps into the room, keycard still in his hand. The silence is deafening, broken only by the soft hiss of Dan's breath. Phil can't breathe. His heart is slamming in his chest, and – he'd always thought it was just some fancy turn of phrase to say it felt like your heart was going to beat its way out, but this, this really _hurts_. And he _can't breathe_.

"Phil," Dan says, his voice slightly choked, and, "Oh God," he says, and, "Can I fuck you?"

The trapped air leaves Phil's lungs in a _whoosh_, like he's been punched in the stomach, and. _Fuck fuck fuck._ He's still got two fingers pushed up inside him, his other hand still on his cock, can feel the sweat slicking his face, his arms, sticking his hair to his forehead, gluing his shirt to his chest. He feels like he's frozen in place, eyes wide and mouth open as his lungs try to drag in oxygen. Each inhalation catches on his lips, icy cold as the skin dries.

Harsh breathing and heavy heartbeats and Phil's not sure if he's hearing his own or Dan's. He hasn't moved, can't seem to connect the panic in his brain to the muscle-memory necessary to pull his hands away. Not when his body is still screaming at him to keep going, keep going, because he's still hard, still turned on, and Dan is actually _there_, and Dan said. Dan asked. Dan wants.

"Phil, I." Dan's voice cuts off when he tries to speak again. Phil sees the way his throat moves when he swallows, sees the pink tip of his tongue dart out to wet his lips, and, "Can I?"

Phil still hasn't moved, though he can feel his muscles shaking, chest heaving as he breathes. He swallows, licks his lips, only half aware he's mirroring Dan's movements, and he doesn't know what in hell he's doing, but he's nodding, and the sound escaping his mouth isn't words, it's somewhere between a moan and a whimper.

A hiss of breath escapes Dan's mouth, and he swallows again, hard, eyes wide like he's not really sure he believes what's happening. Phil's not really sure what's happening either, but. He wants this – really _wants_ this.

Phil licks his lips again, feels the moisture sink into dry skin, and Dan's still staring at him, never stopped, and Phil can't stop staring back. Dan's slightly flushed, and Phil can see the way his chest rises and falls under his shirt, breathing irregular. Phil still hasn't moved either of his hands, and maybe that should be a problem, but he's still so hard and just needs Dan to be closer, closer, _now_. He twists both wrists just a bit, can't help it now, needs _something_, makes himself gasp, back arching just a little from the sudden friction after stillness. He can practically _see_ the way Dan's pupils dilate, making his eyes go dark, _can_ see the way his teeth sink into his bottom lip, and.

Dan takes a step farther into the room, two. "Phil," his voice is a broken whisper now, and he sounds so unsure, looks like he's not sure if he should jump Phil or flee, but he doesn't look away. His eyes flash from Phil's hands – still moving a little, Phil can't seem to stop them, twists against them, doesn't even care what he must look like – up to Phil's face – lips parted as he breathes, sure he's flushed and sweaty, doesn't care, doesn't care – and back. He takes another step, drops the keycard on the floor, step, step, and Phil can't look away from him. He pushes up slightly into his fist and down onto his fingers, and can't seem to stop watching Dan's mouth, the way Dan worries his bottom lip as he moves closer. One more step and Dan's thighs hit the side of the bed.

Phil makes a noise in the back of his throat, tries to stop moving, waits for Dan to touch him, can feel every inch of his skin practically humming in anticipation. He's not sure how he got to this point, half panic, half thrill, and so fucking turned on it almost hurts, but it's _Dan_. Dan, who is standing over him, watching him like he's wanted this forever, like he's tried not to think about it, like he doesn't know what to do now he has it. And maybe Phil's projecting, but for once in his life, he doesn't think so.

Dan reaches out, but stops halfway, arm suspended in air. "Phil," he whispers again, a question this time, and Phil shivers at the sound of his voice, needs contact _now_. He drags his hand away from his cock – tiny groan leaving his throat at the brush of calluses against sensitive skin and then the loss of contact – and catches Dan's fingers.

"Yes," Phil's voice is as soft as Dan's, but somehow comes out firm, confident, like he knows what he's doing, despite the frissons of terror racing down his spine. He can feel Dan shivering, and somehow the fact that Dan is maybe freaking out about this just as much as he is makes it easier.

"Yes," Dan repeats, almost inaudible, and reaches out with his other hand to touch Phil's right wrist, pull his hand free, and Phil whimpers a little at the loss, hips lifting of their own volition as they try to follow his fingers. "I. Do you want me to." Dan's eyes dart from Phil's hand up to his face and.

They're doing this. They are. They are. And Phil really, really wants this. He's not sure it's possible to _not_ want this. Oh god. He needs – he needs to think. His brain seems to be malfunctioning, but. "We need." He stops. Swallows. Squeezes Dan's fingers and tries to breathe, tries to make his body calm down enough to think. It feels like his blood is burning its way through his veins, and he just wants to catch Dan by the back of the neck and pull him down, but. "We need," he tries again, because this is important, "lubricant. Some kind of. Do you have?"

And Dan's still staring at him, never stopped, but now he looks like he's maybe trying to process this. "No," he says. "I. Toilet? They must have some –" he steps back, and Phil's fingers clench convulsively around Dan's. Dan raises an eyebrow, and it's such an everyday move that something relaxes in Phil's chest, like there'd been a fist clenched too tightly underneath his ribs. He releases his grip on Dan's hand, and Dan stumbles away, backwards towards the toilet, tugging his shirt off over his head as he goes, still trying to watch Phil like he thinks Phil is going to vanish the second he turns his back.

Dan's shoes hit the tiling of the toilet floor and he stops, eyes still fixed on Phil, then swallows, cheeks flaming, jerks his head backwards through the doorway, says, "I'll just," and disappears inside.


	2. Chapter 2

Phil has maybe five dazed seconds where all he can think about is Dan's smooth skin and silky hair. Then his brain starts trying to function again, bringing a wave of, _Oh fuck, oh fuck, what am I doing? What are _we_ doing?_ with the delayed comprehension of, _Dan just walked in on me in nothing but a shirt, jerking off with my fingers up my arse, and he wants to fuck me and – oh god – I said yes, I said yes._ And under it all is a steady stream of _Dan Dan Dan Dan_ that's enough to keep his nerves sparking under too-hot skin, fists clenching and unclenching by his sides in the effort not to touch himself, breathing a little too heavy and pulse a little too fast.

"Do you think this'll be all right?" Dan asks, stepping back into the room. He's down to just jeans and boxers, but his face is slightly twisted with worry and he's chewing on his lip again, clutching a little bottle of complimentary lotion. "I use it sometimes when I –"

"I also –" Phil says, and "Yeah, I think it should –" because it's not like he's ever done this before. He's tense, wound too tight, and he wants to just _go_, just do it, wants to get off, wants Dan touching him – touching him for real – and he's maybe also panicking a little more than he should be. His hands clench again by his sides, and he feels completely ridiculous, just lying on the bed, waiting, while Dan frowns down at the bottle in his hand.

Then Dan looks up at him, lip still between his teeth, and Phil feels uncomfortably exposed, on display. He doesn't like it. He has the sudden urge to cover himself and, really, that's stupid, he's been naked from the waist down since Dan walked in, and it's not as if Dan hasn't seen him naked before. But it's suddenly different. It means something now, really means something. They're going to have sex. But Dan – Dan's not moving.

Phil has the instant horrible thought that maybe Dan's staring at him like that because he's just realized this is Phil he's got in bed, not Chris or PJ or some random hot girl. Just Phil. And Phil knows he's never been good enough, never been attractive enough, for their masses of nameless fans to swoon over – he spent long enough with Chris making fun of him for it to sink in, even though he knows he's, grown up, grown into himself, since then – and Chris can be a fucking arsehole, but he knows looks. Phil's never had to have security throw groupies off him at summer in the city like the others have, never had to ask for someone to follow him to a club or a bar or the grocery store so he won't be mobbed. What if Dan –

"So fucking hot," Dan breathes, something like awe in his voice.

Phil blinks at him, because it doesn't sound like Dan's making fun, but.

Dan must recognize the look on Phil's face because he's across the room within a moment, dropping the bottle on the bedside table and leaning in, one hand gripping Phil's wrist, voice low and certain as he says, "You are, you are. So fucking hot, Phil, you have no idea." He brings his other hand up to brush the hair out of Phil's face, fingers cold against Phil's overheated skin, and Phil hums, can't help it, head tilting to press into the touch. Dan's breath catches, and, "So hot," he says again, lets his fingers tangle in Phil's hair.

Phil hums again, loves the feel, eyes slipping closed. Dan's wrong, wrong, wrong, but Phil can maybe let himself believe that Dan believes it. That's enough.

"Phil, look at me." It's more question than anything, but Phil opens his eyes just as Dan brings up both hands to frame Phil's face, palms cool but warming fast against his cheeks, tipping his chin up and leaning down to press their mouths together. It's soft and sweet and they're so close Dan's out of focus.

Phil sighs into it, lets Dan keep it gentle and slow, making no move to push even when he's actually trembling from it. Then Dan ends the kiss and starts to pull away, and that. No. Phil wraps one hand around Dan's wrist and the other around the nape of his neck, yanking him back in. Their noses smash from the bad angle, teeth clicking together, and Dan laughs against Phil's lips until Phil sucks his tongue into his mouth, and then the laugh turns into a groan, followed by a moment of fumbling that ends with Dan on the bed, straddling Phil's thighs.

Dan's jeans rub rough against Phil's legs, but he arches up anyway, needing friction. He releases Dan's wrist, drops his hand down to fight with Dan's belt, button, zip. His knuckles scrape against his own cock and he gasps into Dan's mouth, hips jerking up. He gets the belt undone but gives up on the rest, hooks his fingers under the elastic of Dan's boxers and tries to shove boxers and jeans down together, one-handed.

Dan shifts, tries to support himself on one hand while he uses the other to help Phil. The back of his hand slides over Phil's hip, and Phil twists into it without meaning to. Dan collapses, biting Phil's tongue and knocking the air out of his lungs in the process.

"Ow," Phil hisses, untangling his hand from Dan's hair – when it got there he's not sure – to stick a finger in his mouth to see if he's bleeding.

"Sorry sorry sorry," Dan's panting, rolls to the side so he's not squishing Phil underneath him. "Are you bleed–"

Phil glances askance at Dan when his voice cuts off, realizes Dan's gaze is fixed on the finger he has in his mouth, slides it out a little slower than necessary just to see the way Dan's eyes darken. "Not bleeding," he says, and Dan blinks, eyes flicking up to meet Phil's.

"Oh, good," his voice is a little hoarse.

Phil feels himself smile, reaches down to tug on Dan's jeans. "Maybe you should –" he starts, and.

"Right, right," Dan nods and scrambles out of his remaining clothes, kicking them off the bed, and not even giving Phil the chance to appreciate all the new skin on display before he's tugging on Phil's tee-shirt, saying, "Shirt, shirt, get it off, I want to see you," which is ridiculous, because he's seen Phil a million times without a shirt on, but Phil can't find it in him to protest, because Dan's hands are skimming up his chest under the fabric, which is amazing, and then they've got the shirt tangled around Phil's head, which is not.

By the time they manage to free Phil from his shirt, he's starting to get the feeling he's done something to piss off the universe in a pretty epic fashion. Or maybe he's just meant to fail. At least that proves this is actually real, and not just some fantasy he's dreamt up.

Then Dan rolls on top of him again, and Phil forgets everything else in the delicious rush of skin on skin – oh god – and friction. Dan nips at Phil's neck, under his chin, scattering kisses and bites too soft to leave marks, which is probably smart, but the teasing is driving Phil crazy.

"Dan, Dan, come on," Phil grabs Dan by the back of the neck and pulls him up to lick into his mouth.

Dan groans into it, drops down onto his forearms so they're closer, hands high enough to lace through Phil's hair, holding his head still while he kisses him. Phil arches against him, brings his knees up to frame Dan's hips. Dan groans again, hips grinding down, cock hot and hard against Phil's, and it's new but _oh god_ is it good.

Phil slides one hand down to Dan's arse, pulls him closer, making them both hiss. He tears his mouth away, pants, "Dan, I want you to fuck me, come on, please." Because that's what they're supposed to be doing, and Phil wants it, wants Dan, and this is good, really good, but he wants more.

"Yeah, yes, all right," Dan's breath is rough, hips pushing down erratically against Phil's. "Want to." He pulls back a little, drags a hand down Phil's chest, making Phil shiver, fingers circling Phil's cock, and Phil jerks up into it, groans, eyes falling closed.

"Dan – oh god – Dan, I –" Not fair, not fair, Phil wants – but this.

"Yeah, okay, um." Dan's breathing is still irregular, but he's sounding unsure again, and his hand stills on Phil's cock. Phil whines, pushes up, but, "Should I. Uh. Do you want me to – I want to, but I don't know if you."

Phil drags his eyes open, makes a questioning noise, knees tight against Dan's sides, one hand still on his arse, the other restlessly sliding across Dan's shoulders, back, sides. Dan should be doing something, anything, needs to move, but Phil can't push him, can't, can't.

"Fingers," Dan says, and he's already flushed, sweating, but Phil thinks he gets a little redder when he says it.

Phil doesn't hesitate, says, "Yes. Please. Want you to. Need you to," remembers his own fingers from minutes ago – minutes? hours? it feels like days, at least – wants Dan's fingers instead, working him open.

"Lube," Dan says. Phil hisses a protest at the loss of contact when Dan pulls away slightly to lean towards the bedside table, his hand leaving Phil's cock. He grabs the bottle, says, "Just relax, okay," like he knows what he's doing, like he's done this before, like he doesn't want Phil to worry about the fact that, no matter how much he's wanted this – wants this – and _god_ does Phil want this – it's probably going to hurt a whole hell of a lot. And Phil knows Dan doesn't, hasn't, but he appreciates the sentiment. He appreciates it even more when Dan slides back, kisses him once, hard, on the mouth, and then wriggles down his body, trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses across Phil's chest, flicking his nipples with his tongue, making Phil moan.

Then Dan's nudging Phil's legs farther apart, urging him to bend his knees a little more. He wraps one hand around Phil's cock again, and Phil arches, groan turning into a hiss of shock at the cold slick finger sliding down the crease of his arse before pushing gently, gently in.

"Does it hurt?" Dan asks instantly, and Phil can hear the worry in his voice, see it on his face when he looks down.

"No," Phil says, and it doesn't, at all. "Just cold." He pushes his hips down, feels Dan's finger slide in a little further. It feels odd, but not bad odd. Definitely not bad odd. He tangles one hand in Dan's hair – loves it when it's long – and pets at his neck and shoulders with the other, hips shifting, trying to encourage Dan to move both hands. "You can use another finger," he says, breath hitching, sighs when the hand on his cock moves, but.

"Are you sure?" Dan asks, voice catching. "I only just –"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure," Phil tugs on Dan's hair. "Need more. Come on, Dan."

"But you –"

"Dan," Phil's voice is breathy and a little desperate, he rocks his hips down a little harder, tries to get Dan's finger in deeper, but it's not enough. "I need more. Please. I did two on my own. I want. I need you to."

"Right, right," Dan says, breathing rough, and, "God, that was hot," like he's just remembered, and, "Always so fucking hot," pressing a kiss to Phil's stomach, and, "Okay, okay, this okay?" pushing two fingers in.

Phil hisses again, the stretch uncomfortable, but easier than when he did it himself, smoother. "Yeah, okay," he says, shifts a little, experimentally. "Stings, but okay."

"Should I stop?" Dan starts the pull away.

Phil yanks on his hair, hard enough to hear him hiss in protest, says, "No, no, it's fine. You need to move," and rocks his hips up into Dan's fist and then down onto his fingers to emphasize his point.

"Oh. Oh. Right." Dan twists his fingers a little, scissors them. "Like that?"

It feels strange, still a little uncomfortable, but okay, so, "Yeah, that's fine," Phil pushes back, just as Dan's pressing in, curling his fingers up, and, "_Oh bloody hell_," Phil's hips jerk down hard against Dan's hand as sparks fly all along his nerves, his eyes rolling shut. "Like that, like that," he says. "There, do that again."

"This?" Dan presses again, and Phil curses.

"Yes, yes, that, there. Fuck, fuck, Dan." Phil tries not to pull too hard on Dan's hair again, other hand skating over his shoulders, neck, touching his cheeks, back to his shoulders. He twists between Dan's hands – up into the hand jerking him off, and down onto the fingers stretching him open. He groans. It's still not enough. "Please, I need more. Dan, please." He can barely recognize himself inside this needy stranger, low moans working their way steadily from his throat as he writhes under Dan's touch, fucking himself on Dan's fingers, but he doesn't – can't – manage to care, just needs, "More, Dan, come on. Need you."

Phil can feel Dan breathing hot and heavy against his skin, can hear the soft noises he makes, the rustle of fabric, wonders if Dan's rubbing off against the sheets, and that's not fair, because Phil wants Dan to fuck him, opens his mouth to say as much, but Dan slides his hand back and shoves in again with three fingers, and, "Fucking _fuck_," he gasps, jerking, half his body coming up off the bed, because that _hurts_ like _hell_, but Dan hit him just right and all Phil can see are sparks.

"Phil, Phil, are you all right? I'm sorry. Did I –" Dan's voice is still hoarse, but with an edge of panic now, and he's pressing kisses to Phil's stomach, his hips, his thighs, hand on Phil's cock still moving gently, almost soothing, hand that's half inside Phil gone completely still, fingers still pressed firmly against Phil's prostate.

And Phil means to say, "Fuck, that hurt, hold on, give me a minute, I just need a minute," but what comes out of his mouth is, "Fuck, Dan. Need you inside me. Now, Dan, please." And he grinds down onto Dan's fingers, gasps and curses again. "Please, Dan. Need you. Need this. Need you to fuck me."

Dan makes a sharp noise, then moans, "Fuck, Phil," the sound so low it's almost a growl. He adds something that sounds like, "God, you're trying to kill me."

Phil's about to say he's not, he's really not, and Dan can't die, especially not right now, but then Dan's _gone_, not touching Phil at all, and all that comes out is a whimper. He forces his eyes open as the mattress dips, and sees Dan half off the bed, fumbling frantically with his jeans. "Dan." It's more of a whine than Phil intended, but, seriously, what the fuck?

"Condom, need a condom," Dan says. And, _oh, right, of course, that makes sense,_ the somewhat less hazy corner of Phil's brain agrees. Dan makes a triumphant sound, holding up a foil packet, dropping his wallet and jeans back on the ground as he slides back onto the bed.

Phil watches, can't help it, as Dan rolls the latex down, can't help the noise that bubbles up from his throat when Dan shivers at his own touch. And then Dan's looking at Phil again, petting his ankles, calves, knees, thighs.

"Like this?" Dan asks, voice catching a little. "Or do you want to –" he makes a 'roll over' gesture.

"Like this," Phil says, but it's more of a question than he'd like it to be.

"All right," Dan says, and looks a little relieved. "Good. I. I want to see you."

"All right, good," Phil echoes, then, "Dan, come on, just do it, please." Phil would really, really just like for Dan to fuck him now. He's so hard it hurts and he feels weirdly empty without Dan's fingers, but he's also a little bit terrified, and would really like to stop thinking about it.

Dan meets Phil's eyes, and his voice is still rough, but he sounds dead serious when he says, "Tell me to stop and I will." He doesn't move or look away until Phil nods.

Phil keeps his eyes on Dan as he moves forward again, between Phil's knees, shifts both of them, hooking one hand under Phil's thigh to push it up a little higher. And Phil feels so open and vulnerable like this, in a way he hadn't really thought about, and that's really really scary, but this is _Dan_, so.

Phil focuses on Dan's face, the way he bites his lip in concentration, how blown his pupils are and how dark it makes his eyes look, the sweat gleaming on his upper lip, in the hollow of his throat, the way it makes his hair stick to his forehead. He tries not to move, keep still except for the way his chest is practically heaving with each breath, tries to force his body to relax as Dan lines up and pushes in.

And, oh, oh god, fuck, _fuck_, it _hurts_. Hurts more than two fingers, more than three, a lot more, and Phil knows Dan is going so slowly because he doesn't want to hurt Phil more than he can help, but Phil can't handle this. "Fuck, Dan," he says, and grabs Dan's hips, pulling down hard as he pushes up. And oh, _motherfucking fuck_. His eyes squeeze shut and he bites his lip to keep from screaming, tastes blood.

"Oh god," Dan sounds panicked. "Oh god," he says again. "Phil, Phil, are you – did that – oh god, I'm so, so sorry. Oh god, Phil," and Dan's smoothing down Phil's side with one hand – braced on the other – petting his shoulders, his hair, pressing kisses to his chin, cheeks, forehead, eyelids, and thankfully staying still, not even trying to pull out, like he knows that would just make it worse.

"Just. Just give me a minute," Phil says, and he can hear how tight his voice is, taste copper on his tongue. "Just. Don't move."

"Right, right. Anything you need." Dan leans his forehead against Phil's, and Phil can feel him shaking from the strain of not moving, of holding himself up. But he doesn't say anything, just stays as still as he can, shares heavy breaths with Phil while Phil waits for his body to adjust, the pain to recede.

Phil finally shifts a little and, okay, all right, that's not so bad, he can handle that. He cracks his eyes open, sees Dan's closed above him, and tilts his head up to press a kiss to Dan's parted lips. Dan kisses back, moans into it, follows Phil for a moment when Phil pulls away.

"Are you. Are you all right now?" Dan asks, and his voice is a little wrecked, a little pained.

Phil says, "Yes, yes. You can move, just. Slow, first?"

Dan says, "Of course, of course," and pulls out a little, pushes back in. Phil realizes he's still gripping Dan's hips, fingers tight enough to bruise, and lets go, sliding his hands up to tangle in Dan's hair, pull him down for another kiss, hard and quick.

Dan pulls out again, pushes in. It still hurts, but it's not bad. _Better_. And the look on Dan's face is so fucking amazing Phil thinks it would be worth it anyway, has a fleeting, momentary thought of, _I have to see that again, every day for fucking ever,_ but his body's adjusting fast, and then Dan shifts and the angle changes, cock sliding in deeper and – "God, yes, there," Phil gasps, eyes rolling shut again. Then, "Fuck, yes, harder, Dan, fucking _move_."

"Oh, fuck, Phil," Dan hisses, and Phil can still feel him holding back, feel the tension everywhere they touch. "Fuck. I. So tight, Phil. I don't want. I don't want to hurt you. Oh, fuck, look at me, Phil."

Phil forces his eyes open, gaze zeroing in on Dan's mouth, lower lip bitten red and Phil needs to. He stretches his neck, pressing his mouth to Dan's, tongue swiping across Dan's lip, tasting.

Dan whimpers a little, breathes, "Phil," against Phil's mouth, and Phil can feel him shaking.

Phil's heart is beating a million miles an hour, and this. This is not working for him. "You won't hurt me," he says, lips moving against Dan's skin. And it's half a lie, because Phil already hurts, but he really doesn't fucking care right now, needs this too much. "Come on," he says, licks a thin stripe up to Dan's ear, tastes the salt of sweat. "Do me, just –" he sets his teeth just below Dan's earring, tugs lightly, drops his voice low and whispers, "– come on and _do me_."

"_Fuck_," Dan growls, turns his head to meet Phil's mouth again – can't seem to stop – pulls out, and slams back in, hard.

_Yes,_ Phil thinks, hips jerking up to meet the thrust, sucks Dan's tongue into his mouth, shifts a little to wrap his legs around Dan's waist, heels pressing against Dan's thighs as he pushes up to meet him.

Dan nips at Phil's lip, pushes in harder each time until they're both panting against each other, not even kissing anymore. "So hot like this," Dan gasps, "Wanted you – wanted you. For so long. Want you so much, want to watch you come."

"Shit, Dan," Phil arches up into him, cock hard between them, friction from their bodies driving him mad, but it's not nearly enough. "Dan, Dan, touch me, please," and Phil wonders vaguely if maybe he should just do it himself, but he can't seem to let go of Dan's shoulders, his hair.

Dan just says, "Fuck yes," and slides a hand between them, curls it around Phil's cock – makes Phil whine and arch up again. And it's so much better than Phil's own hand would be, sweat and precome easing the glide, Dan's fingers warm and callused and _his_, better even than Phil ever imagined. They find a rhythm, break it, find it again.

Phil whines again, heat building low in his stomach, making him writhe, push his hips down harder onto Dan's cock and up into his hand. He's not going to last – not going to last, and he doesn't even care, wants to come, wants Dan to come, wants to come with Dan inside him.

"Oh _god_," Dan moans, and Phil wonders if maybe he said that out loud. "So fucking amazing," Dan pants, "God, Phil, you are _so fucking amazing_." He mashes his mouth against Phil's again, drags his thumb over the head of Phil's cock, pulls out and slams in a little harder, a little faster, a little rougher.

Phil can't really form words anymore, couldn't even without Dan swallowing every sound he makes, tries and fails. His hands scrabble over Dan's back, the play of muscles under his palms sending shivers up his arms. He's hot, sweaty, tingling everywhere they touch, skin oversensitive, overheated. Dan ducks his head, tonguing a kiss against Phil's chest, and the uneven tips of his bangs brush over Phil's throat, make him twist and squirm and try to push even closer. "Need – need to –" Phil manages to get out, then gives up on words and just hums a little desperately.

"Want you to," Dan's mouth is against Phil's throat, his jaw. "Fuck. I'm gonna –" his voice breaks for a moment, then his hand tightens around Phil's cock, jerks a little more roughly. He drives his hips down faster. "Want you to come. Gonna make you come first. Want to make you come." He twists his wrist hard, slams in again, and Phil's done for, coming hard between them, over Dan's hand and both their stomachs, gasping and choking out what might be a scream, fingers grasping at Dan's arms, digging in as his back arches, muscles clenching as he shudders through it, hot and intense and lights flashing behind his lids. He can feel Dan follow him over, hears him curse and gasp Phil's name, before he collapses against him, still trembling.

Phil winces when Dan pulls out, fresh pain registering through his post-orgasmic haze. The mattress dips as Dan rolls away, and Phil doesn't look, but he can hear him getting rid of the condom. He's a little sore – knows it will probably be worse later – and disgustingly sticky, covered in drying sweat and come, but right now he doesn't care, only cares that he's cold where Dan's no longer touching him. He must make some kind of noise, because Dan's back in an instant, pressing warm and solid against his side, nuzzling a little and pressing soft kisses to Phil's shoulder, throat, cheek, mumbling, "Okay, okay, are you okay?" and "I didn't hurt you too much, did I?" and "So good, so good, so fucking good," and "Phil Phil Phil Phil," amid streams of nonsense.

"Thank you," Phil says, and that's not really what he meant to say, but he's still a feeling a little floaty, and isn't really sure what he _should_ say.

Dan laughs, sound soft, breath gusting across Phil's skin, making him shiver. "Anytime," he says, then pokes Phil in the side, says, "You're not allowed to panic about this."

Phil turns his head, has to squint a little to see Dan's face at that angle. "I'm not," he says, and it's true, he's not panicking.

"Not now," Dan says comfortably, "but you will. You'll wake up in the middle of the night and start to worry about our friendship, or living together, or if I'm going to be here in the morning. I know you."

"I will not," but even Phil doesn't think he sounds particularly convincing. He can already feel the little niggling doubts at the back of his mind, and he's trying to ignore them, but.

Dan huffs another laugh, pokes Phil a little harder in the ribs, ignores Phil's "ow!" of protest. He props himself up on his arms so he's looking down at Phil again, and purses his lips. "You're already starting," he says. "Stop it. This isn't going to ruin our friendship, or YouTube. We don't even have to tell Chris and PJ if you don't want to. But I wouldn't have done this if it wasn't something I'd already wanted – if _you_ weren't something I already wanted – for a long time, and you should know me well enough to know that. I wouldn't have risked it. Not with you. I would have gone right back out the door when I saw you wanking, and mocked you for it in the morning – after I had got done telling you off for making me worry by hanging up on me after calling me at the club." He pokes Phil again, frowns at him a little.

"Sorry," Phil says, the apology completely automatic. His brain is still trying to process everything, still hovering too close to the edge of panic.

"Turned out all right," Dan's frown twists itself into a grin, and he rests his forehead briefly against Phil's. "I'm going to be here in the morning," he says, voice soft and serious, "and not just because we're sharing this room. I have wanted you for far too long to give you up now I've finally got you, even if I hadn't actually thought I'd get you like this." He pulls back slightly, far enough that he's in focus again. "I asked," he says. "I asked and you said yes, and you don't –" he pauses, then, "and you wouldn't have done any of this if you didn't want it as much as I do. If it didn't mean something to you. I know you don't like one-night stands and indifferent hook-ups, so this had to be something more than casual, and I –" he stops, breathes, grins again, then, "So unless you _want_ this to be a one-off, you're stuck with me."

Phil blinks up at him, mentally scrambling to catch up. "I," he says, stops, blinks some more.

Dan smirks. "Thought so." He leans down and kisses Phil on the nose, startling a laugh. And just like that, everything's okay again.

"Get off," Phil grumbles, knows he's grinning now and can't bring himself to care. He shoves Dan anyway, who collapses on top of him. "Ow, fuck," Phil curses, muscles protesting, and Dan pulls away instantly.

"Sorry, sorry," he says, then shoves Phil lightly in retaliation. "Your fault though. Also, gross." He looks between Phil's stomach and his own, makes a face.

Phil sits up and swings his feet over the side of the bed with a series of winces. "I'm going to clean up." He stands, bites his lip to keep from making any noise.

Dan makes a choking sound, and when Phil looks at him, he's got two knuckles in his mouth to keep from laughing.

"Oh, fuck you," Phil scowls, but he can feel his lips twitching.

"Only finished what you started," Dan retorts, taking his fingers out of his mouth and wiggling them.

Phi feels his face go hot. "Fuck you," he says again, and turns away so Dan can't see the way he's grinning, because, well, he might hurt like hell, but it was definitely worth it.

"Hey, hey," the bed creaks a little and then Dan's stopping Phil at the door to the toilet, wrapping arms around his waist, shifting to hook his chin over Phil's shoulder. "We are. We are all right, aren't we? I wasn't wrong? About you wanting this, too."

Phil can hear the hesitation in his voice, now, and Dan was right, Phil is worried a bit, but. He wants this. He hadn't planned it, hadn't expected it, hadn't ever thought it could happen – definitely not like this – but. He wants this. Wants Dan. Wants – whatever this could be. Wants it so much, has wanted it. He twists around in Dan's arms, presses their foreheads together, says, "So far from wrong," says, "Better than all right, so much better," says, "Wanted this for so long," then ducks his head to kiss Dan's lips, light and chaste, palms against his cheeks, and he feels a little ridiculous, but. It's _Dan_, so.

Dan's grinning when Phil pulls away, and Phil grins back, realizes abruptly – _oh, yeah, still very, very naked_ – flushes, says, "Cleaning up would be good just now," but can't help the spread of his own grin when Dan laughs.

"All right, all right," Dan says, grabs his wrist and tugs him into the toilet.

Phil bats Dan's hands away when he tries to clean them both up, takes the washcloth himself, says, "I'm already regretting moving, thanks to you," and shakes his head when Dan smirks at him.

Dan grumbles under his breath when Phil digs a pair of boxers out of his duffle, but doesn't say anything when Phil frowns at him, just pulls on a pair of his own and slips into the unruffled, clean bed, holding the covers back for Phil.

Phil refuses to think about it – feels himself go red anyway – just slides in next to him and lets Dan prod him into a position suitable for curling into.

"So am I your boyfriend, now?" Dan asks, pulling Phil's arms around his waist and tangling their legs together. There's definite laughter in his voice, curving his lips into a grin, but Phil knows him well enough to know he's serious.

"You can even wear my pin," Phil tells him, waits for Dan's laugh, because he's serious, too. It's safe to joke.

Dan's grin widens, but. "Chris and PJ?"

Phil tilts his head to meet Dan's eyes, holds them for a long moment, swallows, takes a breath, says, "You want to tell them." It's not a question.

"And you?"

Phil opens his mouth to answer, shuts it, thinks about it, realizes, "I guess I do." And Dan's face lights right the fuck up. It makes Phil feel stupidly warm, but he thinks that's maybe okay now.

"They're going to hate us within a week," Dan promises, tackles Phil onto his back again, ignores Phil's wince and halfhearted protest, presses in for a kiss, mouth hot and wet.

Phil laughs against Dan's lips, murmurs, "We can buy them earplugs, they'll love that."

Dan nips Phil's lip, says, "Fifty-year supply," then lets the kiss turn lazy and sweet for a moment before pulling away, settling down again, head on Phil's shoulder.

Phil's pretty sure his arm will be dead in the morning from the weight, but for now, he just tilts his head against Dan's and lets his body sink into the mattress. "See you in the morning," he says, and it's mostly habit, but Dan whispers,

"Be right here," and curls closer.


End file.
